


Tomorrow

by SabbyWrites



Series: Death Note Renaissance [1]
Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Death Note spoilers, Established Relationship, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Night Terrors, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 02:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17357255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SabbyWrites/pseuds/SabbyWrites
Summary: In the night, things are different.





	Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> hi 2019 is the year of the Death Note renaissance thanks 
> 
> xx sab

He jerks awake at a little past three.

You’re half expecting it, at this point. The way the bed creaks a little under his weight as he immediately sits up is no longer a foreign thing to you, nor is his ragged breathing or the manner in which the bed sheets stick to the sweat on his skin.

Wordlessly, you grab the glass of water from your bedside table and hand it to him, watching his moon-shadowed silhouette pause before his hand comes up to gently take it. His fingers are clammy as they brush against yours.

For a moment, the only sound in the bedroom is the sound of him gulping it down. Your eyes never leave him, not even as you shift to prop yourself up on your arm to get a little closer. When you’d first moved in, he used to flinch at every movement of the springs under your body. It eases your mind only a little that he no longer seems hypersensitive to things he cannot see directly.

“Again?” You ask when you faintly see him place the cup on his nightstand. It sounds lighter. Empty, even. 

There’s a pause. You think he’s nodding, but the curtains don’t afford as much of the moonlight as you’d like. Once he seems to remember that you can hardly see him, he sucks in another breath. 

“Yeah.”

“Tōta.” You say, gently raising your free hand to drag your fingers along the skin of his arm. The hairs are nearly standing up. He leans into your touch. “Would you like to talk about it?”

He exhales shakily. “Not really.”

You offer a neutral hum in response, tracing up towards his shoulder. You remember Mello, for a moment; his horribly scarred skin, the scowl with which he had addressed Near. Tōta had been lucky enough to escape physical scarring, but the mental ones perhaps hurt even more. Sometimes, when he’s looking out the window and he thinks you’re not there, he scowls just like Mello had. You wonder if such a specific expression will always hold disdain for Near.

You wouldn’t be surprised if it did. Even a little bit. For as amazing and wonderful as the detective is-- and even barring the insane debt that humanity owes him-- there lingers just the smallest bit of resentment that you and your fellow SPK members can never shake. In the wake of death and cruelty and monsters you could not see, Near was the last man standing. Misery’s proxy, you’d thought once. Just the sight of him reminded you of people dropping like flies. It’s a legacy he does not deserve. 

Just as Tōta does not deserve the nightmares.

Carefully, you draw yourself closer so that your chin may rest on his shoulder. His reaction is immediate, lips finding your own clumsily as he turns his torso. He kisses just like he had the day he’d made his attraction clear to you; frantic, unsure. Like this may be the last time.

And even with the imminent fear of sudden death absent from your lives, you kiss back in kind. In the light of day, things might be more languid. In the dark, where memories lurk like monsters behind the closet doors and you think you can still see L fall when your eyes are closed for long enough--

 “I love you.”

 --things are different.

You give Tōta another hum in response to his whisper, though you’d know he’d prefer to hear it repeated in kind. But you’re distracted, now, hand grabbing at his chest and then sliding around his side and you can feel his rib cage underneath your fingers, taste his pulse in his mouth when his tongue slides against yours. It’s not long before he’s pushing you gently onto your back, sucking on your bottom lip and skimming his fingers across your collarbone, down your chest and your breast and navel to the apex of your thighs. You spread your legs slightly and he settles himself between them, kissing you endlessly even when he slides inside of you. The stretch of Matsuda is something familiar to you, too, just like his jolting awake and the scowls out the window but this feels like _home_ , feels like what life is supposed to be.  

Kira is gone. Mello is gone. L is gone. But you’re still here, still grabbing onto Tōta and kissing him as much as he kisses you, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. You could live a lifetime of just kissing him, just holding him close and telling him you love him, you _love_ him, and it would never be enough.

He holds your hips with the hands that shot Yagami Light, kisses you with the mouth that asked _why, why_ even months after Near had won. But those memories of his hands and his mouth are never remembered by you, at least in moments like this; right now, he is loving you, he is telling you he wants _more, more_ and his hands coax you to release until your body arches up into his and your toes curl in the sheets. And even when your mind clears and you run your hands through his hair, you do not remember him shooting Yagami Light. You do not recall the sound L made when his body fell to the ground, or the horrible scar on Mello’s face. You don’t think of the scowl he seems to have passed to your lover, the echo of building blocks tumbling to the floor in front of Near.

You remember the day he asked you on a date, the jacket of his brown suit soaked in rain and his hands clammy for all the right reasons when you kissed him there and then. You recall him asking you to marry him on the first day without Kira. You think of the nights, as terrible as they are, and how he held you when you used to cry and cry and cry, how no man could ever be God but with the way Matsuda Tōta looks at you, it’s possible to come close.

The bed creaks again. He’s fallen at your side, breathing raggedly now for different reasons. Sweating for different reasons. He fumbles around on the nightstand.

“Shit. Shouldn’t have--” you hear the glass being set down on the stand again, “shouldn’t have drank all the water.”

You pull him close to you. He nuzzles his nose into your hair.

“Did I wake you up?” He asks after a moment.

“I was already up.” You murmur into his chest. It’s his turn to treat you to a neutral hum.

“You need more sleep.”

“Near seems to get along fine without it. Figured I can, too.”

His smile curls against your scalp.

“You’re not Near.” He says. You bite your tongue to keep from saying _thankfully_ , and instead, whisper something about him tiring you out. His laughter is like music.  

Tomorrow is another day, you remind yourself as you shut your eyes. You’re lucky to have tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> i love matsuda's underrated ass he and gevanni can fuck me thank you
> 
> real talk though even though matsuda wasn't privy to like, the worst of the worst, i think anyone working the Kira case would be fucked as hell mentally in the aftermath. like shit, man. nobody can rebound from something like that easy i'll tell you what


End file.
